AN: This was originally meant as a parody of the usually HPFF Time-travel shenanigans, my irritation at the deathly hallows, bemusement over Miss Potter Fics and my general worldview that yearns to point out just how much most popular fiction is really truly a house of cards... but then it just...MUTATED! But then, well, which of my stories haven't? The rebirth of Tammy riddle was only supposed to be 4000 words, but it ended up being 18000 and people were appalled at how I "cut it off suddenly there at the end." This particular piece of insanity has been simmering for almost a year in case anyone's interested and will NOT be going any further. If anyone wanna see where it goes you're free to try and adopt it. Or ReWrite it as a challenge fic if you want. Otherwise? Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Oh, yeah, these. Most of the world setting and characters belong to Lady Rowling of the ridiculous bank account, not this poor ex college student of opposing finances. Everything else is a parody of something else you may or may not recognize.

Well, you've stepped in it now...
by Byakugan789

Harry stood before the 'Veil of Death' in the department of mysteries. It had been mere months since he had defeated Voldemort and if he did this right, it would soon be almost two decades before. In his right hand he gripped the elder wand, and his left a book bound in human skin. He had found the tome locked in one of Dumbledore's chests after the battle, just looking for something to do, something to keep him busy and moving. He had killed himself earlier that night and for the first time in his existence, found peace. It was a humbling thought, and traumatizing… Ron, Hermione and Ginny had survived the night as had many others but so many of his important people had died… oh so many. He had been ready to accept that, had given his life for that, but he hadn't counted on the books and papers he had stumbled upon in his old professor's belongings.

The deathly hallows when united were said to make their bearer the master of death, but none of the books he had read before that fateful night had ever properly hinted at what that really meant. Would it allow the bearer to cheat death? Would they become capable of deciding who lived and who died? Perhaps they could resurrect those who had passed on, properly, rather than as ghosts, infiris or shades. The truth was far stranger. Individually or together the three items were little more than an incredibly powerful arsenal.

The cloak, known as the 'shroud of death' was capable of hiding the wearer from any known form of magical detection, even Alastor Moody's magical eye. The reason he'd been detected by the imposter was actually because the protection was too perfect, leaving him a hollow in the fabric of magic that stuck out like a sore thumb. While under it you were protected from not only direct observation, though not indirect as he had often found, but shielded from the perception and even aggression of the dead. Useful in few situations in the regular world; but essential to what he was planning to do now.

The wand, so named by its mysterious creator as the 'touch of death' allowed for perfect conversion of one's magic into their intended spell, not amplifying it, but rather cleaning up the mess left by normal casting and acting as the loophole in any immunity your opponent might possess. While having the wand didn't make one unbeatable, requiring the user to still have skill of their own, no spell cast by the wand could be resisted by the target upon which it was cast. Dragons, giants, even dementors, could be taken down by properly fired stunners as easily as humans should the master of the wand ever gain the knowledge that they could simply do so. It wasn't because the spells were stronger, but because their vaunted resistances or immunities to spells didn't matter before death. All were made equal in her eyes.

And finally the stone, the exalted 'will of death'. The tales of Beetle the Bard only hinted at its true power. The stone could not in fact raise the dead, for she let none escape her; but it could however command them. The shades of his friends and family that had accompanied him in the forest when he had gone to meet his own demise and indeed the far more permanent ghosts, were all results of the stone's influence upon the world. Because the stone existed the magic of a dying witch or wizard who feared their death deeply enough could gather together after their body cooled and their spirit crossed over, forming an imprint upon the waking world. They were not souls, but rather memories, after images of those whose refusal to accept their fates rang clearly enough in their magic that it would perform them this one final act after their departure and ensure that they would always be remembered. As such, a master of the stone could summon the residual magic imprint left by anyone and quite literally create ghosts of the dead who hadn't been so desperately afraid of their own demise, dismiss both of the previous or offer the bearer godlike influence over spirit based creatures like poltergeist, dementors, Leinthfolds, wisps and other ethereal beasties.

Together they made a powerful arsenal, but the true power of these artifacts, and especially the stone, was not one that could be felt in this world, but the next.

The world that existed… beyond the veil.

According to the book Dumbledore had locked away, and the plans that lay neatly stacked atop of it, becoming the master of death would allow free passage through the veil of death to a world where the impossible became merely inconvenient. The wand would open the door, and close it behind you. The cloak would protect you from the spirits and forces within, many of whom were apparently less than friendly as they waited for their chance to be reborn. And finally, the stone… the stone would allow you to use magic within the realm of the dead, allowing you to do things that were simply impossible in this world. Dumbledore had planned to use it to travel back in time, back beyond the reach of any time turner, escape grasping claws of causality and rescue his sister. First from the muggles who had attacked her and ruined his family and then from his boyfriend, Gellert Grindelwald.

It was actually fitting in a way, his being here. Dumbledore, the man who had made so many mistakes and either caused or allowed so much evil to grow though his good intentions had planned to damn the entire world to save his family even after he had put Harry through all of the pain and heartache of being the sacrificial champion who would finally stop his greatest mistake of all… and now it was Harry, one of the man's many victims, who would get to carry out the master plan.

Amusement bubbled in his gut, threatening to break out and alert the oft shamed and significantly more watchful ministry Unspeakables.

Reading the passages in the book once more, Harry ignored the passage about how messing with the astral plane often had unintended side effects on the mortal realm, and raised the elder wand. "ανοίγω." He said, pointing at the veil, mere inches before him. The translucent barrier rippled, the whispers behind the doorway increasing to a fevered frenzy. Ensuring that death's shroud was firmly fastened around his form and would not be soon coming off Harry strode forward through the barrier, muttering "κλείνω" as he arrived on the other side. According to the book, death got testy when the doorway was left open and was likely to arrive personally if the gate was allowed to remain open for long. The book never said what happened if she did come however, so Harry assumed that meant nobody who'd ever found out had ever survived to add to the text, hallows be damned.

Rubbing his thumb three times across the 'resurrection stone' Harry placed rock against the base of the elder wand's grip and moved the tip to the clasp of the cloak before incanting the words he'd found, both in the headmaster's notes and the book. "Eyrishon, Endless One, Keeper of the Way. Before you stands a supplicant who has passed the trials of death. With touch of death, I have struck forth, beneath shroud of death, so I have gone forth, with will of death, I did entreat, my own death, I did defeat. Through the veil I do stride, to face, reborn, the angles of time and reclaim what was lost."

As the final syllable echoed into the swirling mass of spirits something came forth that defied description. Harry's mind hurt just trying to look at it so instead he simply kept his head down, lips touching the jewel bright silver clasp that held the cloak around him as the book suggested. As he stood, or perhaps floated there the creature observed him, a feeling akin to static, basilisk venom and oil rushed across his skin in random patterns until finally it spoke. "फिवे Five तिमेस times तेस्तेद tested, फिवे five तिमेस times त्रिउम्फन्त triumphant; वहात what इस is इत it यौ you सिक seek, मोर्तल mortal?"

Blood began to leak from Harry's eyes, ears and nose and he wondered, perhaps too late, if this had been the best idea. Sure, he was facing PTS Suicidal Depression, but playing with a book authored in innocent blood upon the flayed skin of martyrs and talking with a lovcraftian horror might be a bit much, come to think of it.

Ah well, too late now! Might as well see if I can get what I came for.

"I seek to escape causality within my own time-line and reclaim the life that was stolen from me." He spoke with clear conviction. "I intend to return to the beginning and use the power and knowledge I have gained fighting this damned war to save the family that was lost to me."

"ग्रंतेद Granted."

In retrospect Harry knew he should have been more careful in his wording, but that's why they say that hindsight is twenty/twenty. Before the creature had even finished uttering its reverberating acceptance of his demand Harry felt as if he were being squeezed through a straw. It was almost like apparating in slow motion, save that it was hot and wet and slimy. Suddenly the pressure changed and he could breathe again! Oh, sweet Merlin, air! Taking a breath had never felt so good! Sighing deeply Harry breathed in and out laboriously, his limbs weak but functional. Odd sounds were coming from all around him and he was having difficulty moving, thinking or even simply opening his eyes. Everything was blurry, and it felt as if he was being handled by Grawp again. Then there was a sharp pain somewhere near his abdomen and he screamed. For some reason his pain tolerance had gone away with his strength and his senses.

He felt a rush of static pass over him and suddenly the wet sensations were replaced by the soft press of a towel. The fibers were huge, but oddly comfortable he noticed as the giant's hands lifted him again and he was moved across the room. Presently he was lain down in the arms of another and Harry looked up to see the jade green eyes, blood red hair and smiling, crying face of Lily Potter né Evens.

Oh. Oh Merlin, bloody hell.

Well, he'd come back to the beginning alright, that was for certain! Retreating into the back of his mind, Harry let his instincts take over and began practicing his occlumency as one hand clutched Sirius finger whilst Lily held him to her breast for feeding. Honestly, what else was he supposed to do? He'd thought to come back as his fully grown 18, nearly 19 year old self wielding the wands of elder, holly and yew against the dark tosser himself and taking the one with the power to vanquish approaches as a far more literal meaning than he was about to be BLEEDING BORN!

Bollocks…

The meditation did seem to be helping a little at least. He was calming down and still able to remember most of his life, actually, strike that, all of his life with a near crystal clarity. Interesting… combine that with the familiar level of power he'd taken most of two decades to grow into… perhaps things weren't quite as bad as he'd previously thought? Remembering every individual insult and action against him in his first nine years of subjugation was unpleasant, certainly, but being able to recall every sensation and event of accidental magic throughout his life and even the first year and a half with his parents and their friends? Yeah, he could live with this.

Now, if only his ears and eyes would clear up enough that he could understand what in the bleeding hells was happening around him…

~! #$%^&*()_+

Harry looked around his new room in horror. It was pink. It had been a month since he had first woken up and between marveling at the convenience of magical self-cleaning diapers and an apparent empathic link between him and his mother he hadn't really noticed how his mother and the hospital staff had clothed him. Or her; rather. This would not do. unforeseen consequences his soft pink arse! Damn you Eyrishon, you fucking abomination! He thought furiously, clenching his tiny fist and shaking it while growling.

The door opened suddenly and Harry turned to see his mother rush in looking frantic. Rage turned to curiosity as she watched her mother, her beautiful mother, look around in confusion. Lily said something, but Harry was still having trouble relearning how to process sounds. His mother picked him up and stroked him, cooing softly and Harry allowed himself to relax, no reason to alarm his mum, there was really nothing the matter, at least, not yet. In the meantime he'd have to work on his wand-less magic since he couldn't just battle Voldemort straight up and changing this room would be the perfect way to start.

Over the next few months that was just what he did. Harry started small, with summoning and banishing charms because that was what he was the most familiar with and because Hermione had told him once it was the most common bit of instinctual magic kids did in any of her books, making toys fly.

~! #$%^&*()_+

August 13th 1981

Arthur Weasley looked down at his wife, wincing as she squeezed his hand particularly tightly. It had been a difficult labor, and two days late as well, but it was nearly over. He just hoped the healers finished with his dear molly-wobbles before she broke every bone in his hand. Again.

Molly cried out as another contraction hit her and the healers themselves became very excited. "I cana see tha head!" one called, "The baern's crownin!"

After that there was a flurry of activity as the healers and midwives worked to help ease his seventh out, dry it off and cut the umbilical cord. After a long series of spells the attending nurse, junior healer Patty Rosenberg came up to the bedside where Molly was still holding his hand and presented them with the child. "Here ye are, Mr and Mrs Weasley. A perfectly healthy baby boy!"

As Molly took the child something clicked in the back of Arthur's head and he paled. This would be the seventh generation of Weasleys in his line with no daughters born to the name and though four of them were dead and one a squib, he'd had six older brothers before him, none after and no sisters.

"So, wat will ye be callin him?" Patty asked the couple.

"Septimus." Arthur said, cutting over his wife before she could say anything, his voice faint. "His name will be Septimus Uthar Weasley."

~! #$%^&*()_+

September 1st 1981

Lily Potter was worried. Her daughter Ivy was always such a quiet baby… at first she'd thought it was the difference between magical children and normal ones and had been glad that she wasn't subjected to the regular horror stories of the first child terrors. The sleepless nights, constant crying, having trouble getting them to eat and then all of the stinky poop filled diapers… Self-cleaning charms on the cloth took care of that particular worry, and well recorded and published magical empathic connection between mother and child always let her know exactly what her first daughter's current issue was, but she was still quiet.

Too quiet.

As she absently brushed her daughter's perpetually messy dark red on black hair and watched her turn yet another frilly pink outfit to blue denim overalls she thought on what Dumbledore had just told them. Thirteen months ago Sybil Trelawney had made a prophesy while in Delphic trance that a child would be born in the final days of July to those who had 'thrice defied' the dark lord, and that child would have the power to defeat him. Severus had heard the first two lines, stating that the child would come, but been driven off before the last two lines stating specifically that the child would be a boy and be marked by Voldemort as an equal were uttered.

Lily wasn't certain what to think about that. On one hand, she was still furious with the man for not listening to her and joining a side she simply could not condone, even more so now that his bringing the prophesy to Voldemort had caused him to target them specifically! But... as Dumbledore had told them last night when he helped them set up to go immediately under the fidellius charm, Severus had come specifically to Dumbledore and offered his life, his service and the warning that his master and patron had decided to target them!

She and James had indeed faced Voldemort three times in mortal combat and escaped with their lives, as had her best friend Alice and her husband Frank Longbottom, Ivy and Neville were born within hours of each other just on either side of midnight separating July 30th and 31st… but Ivy was a girl! Not a boy! She had been so happy when she and Alice had been due to have their children the same day, they'd planned this since second year, one of them would have a daughter, the other a son, neither had much cared which, but they would grow up together, go to Hogwarts together just as they had and marry making her and Alice sisters in law as well as in bond.

And now Voldemort was after the pair of them. Or rather, he was after Ivy and possibly Neville. Severus had apparently come from his master's service not because of the prophesy, or his part in setting the madman on a pair of children, but because the dark lord had become convinced that the prediction meant Ivy and in his attacking Lily might be hurt as collateral. Not that James might die as well, or that Ivy would almost definitely die, but that she, Lily Potter né Evans, might get hurt. Should she be flattered that he still cared for her so deeply that he'd risk that… that… thing's wrath to save her, or hate him all the more for setting Tom on them, specifically, in the first place and not caring that her loving husband and beautiful innocent daughter might die in the process?

And then there was her daughter's obvious power.

Lily's first memory of experiencing instinctual magic when she was five years old, though that might not have been her true first and she hardly knew what it was at that point. She had been having trouble reaching one of her more favored picture books because her mother had gotten tired of calling her to dinner every day and put it on a high shelf. She had wanted the book so badly and then in a fevered rush of static and adrenaline half of the shelf was pouring down on her. All small paper bound books, but still quite the 'in your face' experience that you were more than you might have thought.

It had been mere weeks later when she had first been able to make it happen again and from there she had learned how to do all sorts of things. Floating down from great heights, making flowers bloom or close, directing animals to flock to and sing with her like that Yank movie Snow White, summon things to her hand or put them back where she'd gotten them without every touching them and so many other things. And then she had met Severus…

She shook off her train of thought. From her research years ago in Hogwarts five was an exceptional age to first begin showing magic and, perhaps because they simply accepted it as a fact of life, unheard of for active control of her abilities. Ivy had been doing these things almost since she was born… What did it mean? She had her theories of course: Dumbledore was a half-blood, his mother muggle-born like her and his father the last of an ancient and noble wizarding clan. Tom was too, only in reverse, his father being, at least according to Dumbledore, a muggle noble and landowner just north of London. Or at least he had been until the Second World War when he and his family had mysteriously died together on the same night under suspicion of poisoning. Voldemort's mother, a squib named Merope Gaunt, was the last direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin whose line had been so pure obsessed they had married cousins, siblings and parents just to keep the bloodline 'strong'.

This disturbing level of power in Dumbledore, Voldemort and now her daughter was part of a growing theory she'd held since first hearing pure-blood rhetoric on the train ride in. Pure-bloods believed in the power of magical blood, a concept she'd never liked, but couldn't actively dispute as throughout school magical power, with noticeable exceptions, did tend to go pure blood, half-blood, muggle-born. However while pure blood did lend itself to power, the purer pure-bloods tended to have power equal to the majority of the muggle-borns' and according to the Hogwarts library Genealogy texts the purer and closer intertwined a family was the more they produced squibs who had no power.

Her conclusion was that while pure-bloods did indeed have reason to be smug about their long magical lineages and combining multiple wizarding lines did indeed gift you with power and skill beyond your fellow man, whereas marrying muggles and less powerful wizards meant less skilled powerful children, they simply didn't understand enough biology for that alone to save them. Low birth rates and inbreeding were stealing their power just as easily as consorting with, ahem, lesser creatures... The Potters for instance were a primarily pure-blood line which stretched for nearly three thousand years on the main vault tapestry and had been seven generations pure before James had married her. And now their daughter was bending spoons at six months, deliberately transfiguring her cloths and charming her room different colors at one year.

And now all of this meant that Voldemort was convinced that the prophesy might yet be true. A child born with the power to defeat him. Even if he did know that it was supposed to be a boy and not a girl Tom Riddle would still likely come for them, they hadn't exactly been secretive about Ivy's unusual and perhaps even unnatural power. Born as the seventh month died, parents thrice defied and power worthy of anyone's notice… the only thing that might stay his hand would be the two lines he'd missed about marking his equal. Though that did lead to another question, why wait a year to care about the prophesy?

~! #$%^&*()_+

October fifth, 1981

So that was it, Harry thought bitterly as he watched his parents and their friends come out of Lily's ritual room. Sirius is taking heat from the corpse munchers, the secret keeper has been changed and no amount of crying at the sight of Peter for over a year had managed to change it. Bloody hell. At least his wand-less magic seemed to be going well, not that it was particularly hard once you got used to it, it was just a lot more tiring was all. Doing magic with a wand was like plugging a hose and spray nozzle into a river-fed reservoir. Different spells could easily be likened to different nozzle settings and the amount of power you could put into them through the wand was the size of the hose or the how far you'd squeezed the nozzle lever. With a wand you'd have to throw around high powered spells for most of the day to ever be in danger of running out, most of that because of simple core magic regeneration.

Casting wandlessly by instinct and force of will however was like taking that same reservoir and cracking open the floodgates. The amount of power you could pour into a single act was enormously higher, even going so far as to leave you magically exhausted in a single push because like opening the gates of a dam the magic just spilled out everywhere. The effect of this was like wielding a pair of double edged swords; on one hand you could put incredible and literally unblockable power into any single act save that doing so was a quick way to become exhausted and useless and with the other hand you didn't need spells to confine you as your will was the ultimate expression of that power, except that acting this way meant you needed an incredible will and focus to not lose most of the magic to random, wasteful and potentially disastrous thoughts as it crashed over and through items and shields like the tide as it seeks to fulfill its casters wishes.

Power and versatility versus endurance and precision. Hammer or scalpel.

Of course it was far more complicated than that, but the description still fit. Wanded magic actually had more uses because while instinctual casting went think, want, have; it still relied on what you believed yourself to be capable of and what you could imagine accomplishing, whereas with a wand so long as you could find the right book you had thousands of years of other people helping you think, want and imagine what you could have; quite often including things you couldn't have dreamed up even in your wildest moments of fear or fancy. It was also the reason Tom and Albus appeared to be so much more powerful than everybody else, why Harry had always considered Hermione, magically weak though she may be, his better. For (though perhaps not to) an unintelligent and uninquisitive person, magic was hopelessly backwards in comparison to modern muggles, but for people like those three, the possibilities were endless. Any problem, no matter how great or how petty could be solved by a simple convenient spell, it was just a matter of having the right one in your mental or physical library. Luna once told him that she always tried to do eleven impossible things before breakfast, simply as a matter of routine.

For now though he was simply practicing, in wait for the end of the month when Tom was to attack and do his level best to tear the Potters world apart.

"Mum!" Harry cried, using his power to lift off the ground with streamers of golden fire and fly across the room towards the redhead. Landing in his mother's arms 'Ivy' glared at Peter's retreating back.

~! #$%^&*()_+

October 15th evening.

"You look troubled, Padfoot, what's up?" James asked his best friend as the man left the room James wife and daughter were still playing in. He had to admit be being regularly amazed by the pair of them. Lily had always been unusually skilled with wand-less magic and the marauders had learned a bit of it here and there because not only could they not stand to be upstaged, but it was positively useful for performing pranking magic without the professors being able to check your wand for the spell. Even so, the sheer degree of skill to which Ivy had inherited her mother's talent still blew him away.

"Ivy asked me a question, James, one I'm still trying to wrap my head around." The Black Heir Apparent replied slowly.

"Oh?" said girl's father asked, feeling a welling of pride at how the girl was already able to ask coherent questions, a skill not normally developed into mid two or three years old. "What did she say?"

Sirius laid a hand on either shoulder and stared at him solemnly. "She asked 'why rat take paffoos light?'"

Raising a brow in confusion James asked the obvious. "She thinks a rat took a light? How could a ra… wait, Peter hasn't transformed in front of her, has he?"

"All four of us have, you know that." Sirius told him, rolling his eyes "She even calls Remus 'wolf' or 'woof' when she isn't calling him Mooie."

"And she thinks Peter took a light? Any idea what that's referring to?"

"No idea," the former secret keeper replied with a shrug. "It's not an object, nothings been stolen and I can't imagine Peter doing so anyways. It can't be my magic because I can still cast spells and there's no damage to my core. The only thing I can think of that Peter might have taken recently would be my duties as secret keeper, though how anyone, even a super-magical toddler, could see that is beyond me."

"You can't be serious?"

Sirius cracked a sudden grin and began to open his mouth but deflated into an easy smirk at James' glare. "It makes as much sense as anything else. This is the little girl who calls your trophy snitches fly lights…"

James pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned in exasperation. "I will teach her to call them snitches one of these days." The nearsighted brunette growled, face caught halfway between a grin and a grimace. "Still, going out on a far out limb that she is referring to your Fidellius duties transferring to Peter, I'm not sure how I'm still surprised. She's been pulling toys across the room since she was four months old and Lily's been complaining about how she's rejecting the princess motif by charming colors and transfiguring her clothes for months. Did I tell you about how I caught her walking across the ceiling after a butterfly last week? And you've seen her fly to Lily under her own power on occasion, she's going to be a natural Quidditch player, I can just tell!"

"So," Sirius said, somewhat loudly, indicating he wanted a change of subject, "How fares our fiery enchantress? Evans' Enchantments push back any more magical boundaries since my last assignment?"

"Well, with all of this free time we're both finding on our hands she's begun messing with vanishing cabinets and…"

~! #$%^&*()_+

October 31st night.

Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, moved through the streets of Godrics Hollow twitching with the effort to not start cursing the entire street into oblivion. Tonight marked the beginning of Samhain, one of the holiest of wizarding holidays and here the muggles ran back and forth in their profane secular celebration of the candy gods. All Saints Day was supposed to be in April; not tainting his people's celebration, thought that would hardly have made the Catholic blasphemy any less profane…

Samhain was the old Celtic celebration of the harvest, a time to bring in your crops, choose which livestock to slaughter for the winter, mourn the dead and celebrate life. Beginning at dusk of the 31st, ending at dawn of the first and peaking at midnight, it was the night when the barriers between the shadow-lands of the Fey and the natural world were at their thinnest, allowing magic to be at its most potent. Indeed it was, traditionally, the time at which heroes began their quests, villains kicked off their master plans, the time the story truly began. Halloween was a day of choices, choices of life and death, of good and evil. Even the mundane recognize it, deep in their bones. They dress as ghosts and skeletons, as heroes and villains, maidens and monsters. Deep down inside, they remember the roots of Halloween. It was a night of power that was mostly forgotten.

But not to him.

Or to the Potters it seemed, as he could see a twin row of bonfires in their backyard as he approached the house they thought hidden beneath the fidellius. Fingering Gryffindor's dagger in his belt, the virtually indestructible item he intended to form into his final Horcrux, he passed through their gate approached the door. It was fitting in a way, that most of the lost arts that involved Samhain involved living sacrifices, with the ritual already primed to create his final soul shard this night would truly be the ending of a great many things. Killing the Potter's brat would put an end to that pathetic prophesy that was giving his enemies hope, create his final Horcrux securing his immortal power, and the sacrifice of an innocent child would serve to give him the power boost he needed to make his ascension to emperor of the British wizarding world incontestable.

Pausing before the gate he took a step to the side and looked in on the happy couple. James Potter sat on the couch, wand behind one ear, laughing while his wife and child played together on the floor. Sneering at the scene he moved over to the door and made ready to blast it open. An evil overlord he may be, but there was no reason not to be polite. He'd make it quick for the Potters, take them out before they could really realize what was happening. Once the husband and child were dead the mud-blood would be sent off to Severus, let it not be said he didn't reward loyalty and service. Yes, things were coming together nicely.

They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room, the tall black-haired man in his glasses, was now making puffs of colored smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired child in blue pajamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in its small fist...

The porch gate creaked a little as he pushed it closed, but James Potter did not hear. His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the door, which burst open. He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had even forgotten his wand on the couch...

"Lily, take Ivy and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

Hold me off, without a wand in his hand?... He laughed before casting the curse... "Avada Kedavra!" The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut... pathetic. How was it this man had faced him three times before now and still breathed? Well, that was corrected now, wasn't it?

With a shake of his head he turned his attention towards the stairs. He could hear Severus' prize screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear... He climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in... She had no wand either... How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments...

He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand ... and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the last sight of him, she dropped something into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead...

"Not Ivy, not Ivy, please not Ivy!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl ... stand aside now."

And yet still the mud-blood blubbered her useless plees at him. He was about to offer her one final chance when the world turned sideways.

~! #$%^&*()_+

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